Untouchable

1: The Commissar

She didn't move right, or so she had been told.

There was always something that was wrong, something that made people flinch. She had watched and observed and memorized how others moved – their bodies, their hands, their faces. She had practiced and practiced and practiced, and yet it never seemed that she got it quite right. She had learned the right words for polite conversations, how to speak to a superior, the correct way to address a psyker to put fear into them without stepping close enough to harm.

She knew the words. The words were right.

Over the years she had even learned to let some emotion seep into her monotone voice, some real but most of it feigned. It made others more comfortable if she spoke the words the way that they did, even if it didn't come naturally to her.

The movements were still wrong though. Decades of watching and practicing and she had failed to master it.

"It's like watching a mannequin come to life," the commissar says to her one evening. He is always too talkative when he has gotten two glasses into his drinking. Says anything that passes through his head. A blatant security risk.

She sits perfectly still, feet planted firmly on the ground, arms at her sides, back straight. She turns her head towards him to show that she is listening, watches him. Sees the shiver run down his spine as he turns away.

With a small sigh she musters up a soft smile, folds her legs, and leans back a little in the chair that she was assigned on the first evening here. It has been hers ever since, when they are alone. In the company of others, she stands silently by the wall at the commissar's back, watching and waiting for any sign of aggression in his companion. There has been none so far. Her presence here feels unnecessary, as if she is an overgrown child's security blanket. Yet, the inquisitor sent her here, and until further orders arrive, this is where she will remain.

"I apologize, sir," she says, folding her hands in her lap. "It is not my intent to make you uncomfortable. Do you want me to leave?"

He gives her a half-filled glass instead of answering her, she accepts it. It is what is done. She doesn't enjoy it, drinks anyway, sips gently. Decides not to display the discomfort she feels, focuses on acting like a normal person who is at ease.

"I think we all want to leave," he says, and the words began to spill out of him readily, washing over her like water from a cracked pipe.

She watches, nods, offers small "hmm"s and "mhm"s to assure him she finds his rambling engaging. The gentle hint of a smile never leaves her lips, focuses on ensuring that her eyebrows express concern when appropriate. It seems that it is a good enough display of emoting for the commissar, at least now that he is on his third glass. His mind remains on his own concerns – venting over the useless troops, the insufficient intelligence, the unsatisfactory quarters, his fellow commissars.

She listens obediently.

He is lonely. He only has her to confide in, here on this unwelcoming planet. She accepted the role early on. She is lonely too. It is not a conversation, no exchange between equals. Still, it is better than her previous posting, where she had only ever been spoken to when given orders.

The commissar finishes his third glass with a sigh and sinks deeper into the couch. The hat and coat are long since discarded and the sleeves have been rolled up. Three buttons are undone, strands of black hair have escaped whatever hair products he uses to keep it in place, descending to caress his temple.

Messy, she thinks, but doesn't say.

"I've seen the figures," he goes on, gesturing with his empty glass, index finger pointing at her as he does so. "The ammunition is not going to be enough, not the way they spray and pray, but tell a guardsman to aim and..." he lets out a deep sigh and looks at her.